


Smorgascreek

by grapehyasynth



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: And yes they are all correct, Could probably be canon compliant if you just handwave at the timeline, David Rose has a lot of opinions, Entrepreneurial innovations, Gen, Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, Not quite crack but, POV David Rose, Town spirit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 17:47:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30025509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grapehyasynth/pseuds/grapehyasynth
Summary: There's been a big misunderstanding. There's obviously been a big misunderstanding because people keep coming into David's very nice store and trying to get him to take them on as vendors.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 29
Kudos: 144





	Smorgascreek

**Author's Note:**

> The first thing you need to know to understand this fic is that there is an open-air food market in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, called Smorgasburg. 
> 
> The second thing you need to know is that while I love fics where David is soft and understanding and compromising, this is not one of those fics. 
> 
> I thank alldaydream for the germ of this idea, which came when she - in the midst of some other goofy discussion we were having - was like "imagine if ray started coming into the store and trying to sell his stuff on consignment" and I was like "honestly how has that NOT happened" and so I took that and ran way, way farther with that than I should have
> 
> Both alldaydream and reymanova gave me amazing ideas for - well, you'll see in a minute. Thanks also to reymanova for beta support, ily

It starts, as these things seem wont to do, with Ray. 

He comes into the store on a Friday about a month after their open mic and plops a big box down on their center table, scattering some of David’s carefully-aligned product. 

“Ray!” he says loudly. “What are you - how can I - what is that?” 

“Oh, hello, David, good morning, Patrick,” Ray sing-songs, like he hadn’t seen them at breakfast in his kitchen several hours before. “I ran into Heather Warner at Brebner’s and she was telling me about the arrangement you have for selling her cheese - it’s really a rather ingenious set-up, I don’t think I properly understood your business model before, David. I must say I’m impressed.” 

David’s hackles wilt a little, irritation soothed by praise from another small business owner. “Well, thank you, Ray. I appreciate that.” 

“And it got me thinking!” Ray goes on, flattening his hands on top of the box. “And so I’m here with my contribution.” 

David glances at Patrick, who’s kept on with restocking the notebooks on the far side of the store and who looks just as confused. “Your ... contribution.” 

“Yes! I don’t know what your target profit margin is, but I thought we could start with $35 for the sweatshirts, $20 for the mugs, and $15 for the mousepads and renegotiate depending on how sales go.” 

“Ray-” David says warningly, but Ray’s already opened the box and started to pull out a series of items worse than whatever Pandora had unleashed. 

“I understand it’s all on consignment, so you can’t pay me up front, which I must say could be exclusionary to some creators, but I hope it’s a conversation we can continue to have as your store grows! How many would you like?” Ray asks, continuing to add to the pile of sweatshirts emblazoned with _Ask Ray About Ray’s Rate’s_ and Ray’s floating, disembodied, beaming head. 

Patrick must sense David’s throat closing up because he abandons the stationery and joins them at the front of the store. “Oh, Ray, you brought your merch.” 

“I _did_! I would’ve done it _months_ ago but as I said I don’t think I properly understood what it was you were actually doing here.” 

Patrick’s face briefly pinches with offense that David knows matches his own, but Patrick’s quicker at smoothing it out. “Ray, I’m sorry if there’s been a misunderstanding, but we can’t sell your products here.” 

Ray pauses, eyes widening. “Oh? But I - I thought you were supporting local artisans.” 

“We are,” David says. 

“And _I’m_ a local artisan.” 

“Would we call you that?” David mutters, just as Patrick says loudly, “Of course you are, Ray, but we - we can only afford to offer so many products in our store. We have to be-” 

“Selective,” David chimes in. 

“We’re not currently looking for additional vendors to partner with,” Patrick tells Ray. “We actually have a bit of a waiting list. And there are a lot of factors that go into choosing which products we might want to offer, such as customer demand, profit margins, how much of the product the vendor actually makes themselves, what we’re already offering-” 

“I don’t see any of these delights on your shelves!” Ray trills, waggling a mousepad at them both. 

“No, no, you’re right about that,” Patrick chuckles. “But listen, Ray, wouldn’t it be a shame to hide your brand under ours?” 

Ray pauses, considering. 

“If we were to take your product on-” 

“Which we definitely are not,” David interjects. 

“Which we aren’t, because we’re not currently adding new products,” Patrick says carefully, “it would require a - a kind of subsuming of your brand under the store’s brand.” 

“Hmm, I see,” Ray nods. “Well, gentlemen, I hate to retract my offer, but my brand _is_ my product, so without that - well! It would hardly be worth my time to be selling here.” 

“Worth _your_ time?” David squeaks, but fortunately Patrick’s already helping Ray repack the box and ushering him out the door. 

They stand for a moment in the tense silence of their blessedly empty store. 

“What the fuck was that?” David asks eventually. 

“Honestly I’m surprised that hasn’t happened earlier,” Patrick sighs. “I told you it’s an unconventional model, David.” 

“ _Unconventional_? If I recall correctly, when you were still trying to woo me, you called it _inventive.”_

“It can be both,” Patrick assures him, and he kisses him on the cheek before getting back to the notebooks. 

Jocelyn is next, which David feels in hindsight he should have predicted. 

She comes into the store waving her - well, David’s fairly sure it’s impolite to suggest that a pregnant woman is _using_ her pregnant belly to make a point. But all the therapists say that we can’t help what we feel and David _feels_ fairly sure the second that Jocelyn comes in to the store that she’s exaggerating her pregnant-ness a tad, propping a hand on her lower back, waddling more than she was that morning at the cafe. 

“Hi Jocelyn!” he says cheerily anyway, because they can’t afford to lose her business. “Can I help you find something today?” 

“Oh, no, thank you, David,” she chuckles, which is not a great start. “I actually came to talk to you about a new potential vendor.” 

“Well, if you just give them our number, they can call us and we’ll-” 

“It’s me!” she bursts out, her entire Janine-ravaged hairdo jiggling. “I’m your new potential vendor!” 

It’s been a week since Ray was here, so it’s only his second thought that this is definitely a trap. 

“Well isn’t that-” He props a hand on his hip and looks around as if Patrick will magically appear, even though it’s his day off. “Jocelyn! I didn’t know you - what product, exactly, is it that you think we should sell? Here? In my - in our store?” 

“My Sloppy Jocelyns!” she beams, and some integral part of David’s digestive system drops clear through the floor. 

“I’m sorry, your-” 

“My Sloppy Jocelyns,” she repeats. “I mean, probably not the actual, constructed things - that would just be ridiculous!” 

David laughs along with her. “Yeah, ridiculous.” 

“But I know how popular meal kits are these days, with the working parents and the younger generation who seemingly never learned how to cook-” 

David frowns; _he’s_ never really learned how to cook, except for that one - _shudder_ \- that one time. 

“So if I were to whip up a batch of the meaty fillings-” 

“Okay,” David says, desperate to stop her. 

“And then package them up in little baggies, and you could sell those, and some buns, and maybe I could caramelize some onions, and then you just need a package of the cheap orange cheese-” 

“Okay, Jocelyn, I love your entrepreneurial spirit, but this is all sounding very complicated!” 

She frowns and her excited hands come to rest under her belly, cradling it. She is _definitely_ trying to manipulate him, which is a misguided gamble since Patrick’s the one who actually cares about people’s feelings and children and things. “But, David, I talked to Ray-” 

“There was your first mistake-” 

“And he said you guys were looking to take on community vendors-” 

“Mmmm, nope-” 

“And his stuff just wasn’t a good fit because of something about a Russian nesting doll of brands? But _I_ don’t have a brand, so I don’t care what sticker you slap on my food!” Jocelyn laughs heartily, illustrating with a borderline-vulgar slapping motion. “As long as it brings in the cash.” 

“Ahahha, right, yes, that’s so - mhm. That. Um, did Ray mention that we are not currently taking on new vendors?” David asks hopefully. 

Jocelyn pauses. “He might have. But when I came in, you said I could have my potential new vendor give you a call, but I don’t _need_ to give you a call, because I’m _here_.” She widens her eyes at him, does a second of jazz hands, and then, looking positively delighted with herself, brings a hand up to her ear as if talking on a phone. “Hello David, David, can you hear me now?” 

_We need her business, we need her business, we need her business_ , David repeats desperately to himself. “Okay, Jocelyn, but when prospective vendors call us, we put them on a list, and then we - we evaluate them using a - a very rigorous set of criteria to determine if it’s a good _fit_.” 

“Brenda said you offered to draw up a contract the very first time you tried her hand cream,” Jocelyn says suspiciously. 

“That - was a very - it was a bit more complicated than that,” he lies. He’d been ready to promise Brenda a first-born he’ll never have to get her to sign on with the store. 

“Hmm.” Jocelyn drums her fingers over her stomach like it’s a big drum. Which David suspects is _also_ an offensive thing to think about a pregnant woman, but at least he doesn’t _say_ it. “Well, maybe I’ll have to wait until the good cop is back.” 

“The - who-” 

“Patrick’s a sucker for a good Sloppy Jocelyn,” she stage-whispers with a salacious wink. 

“He will tell you the same thing I did!” he insists, following her as she meanders towards the door. “We are not taking on new vendors! And even if we were-” 

“I have my ways, David,” she promises, and oh god, he needs to warn Patrick before the entire town is attempting to bribe him into stocking their alarming home-grown wares. “I. Have. My. Ways.” 

And with another oversized wink she leaves him to his bafflement. 

“David, how do you feel about cute little bedazzled dog collars?” Alexis calls across the store, entirely besmirching the atmosphere of the place. 

“On principle, I pretend they don’t exist.” He finishes loading Marta’s homemade sauerkraut into the fridge and tosses down the empty cardboard box. “Why?” 

“Oh, no reason. It’s just, they were, like, a _big_ seller at the clinic, and I think I could make some that are really cute, you know?” 

“Okay, I thought you weren’t really talking to Ted, though.” 

“No, I’m not,” she says, far too casually, as she studies the scarves for the third time this morning. “I wouldn’t be selling them _at_ the clinic.” 

He frowns. “Are you starting an online store, or-” 

“David!” She swans over, apparently with the express purpose of smacking his arm, which she does. “Stop playing coy. I’d be selling them _here_.” 

“ _What?!_ ” he snaps. 

“Obvs! I mean, I was a little offended you hadn’t _asked_ me to contribute, but I heard about it from Jocelyn-” 

“ _No_ ,” David says. 

“And it got me thinking! What is family for, am I right?” She winks, even worse than Jocelyn had. 

“We are not-” 

“David!” The door swings inward and his dad plows in, already with his pitch-face on. 

“Now what?” David demands. 

“If you’re going to be selling community products at your store, I think it’s only fair that you put up some ads for the motel,” Johnny says, pulling a flyer out of his padfolio with a flourish. 

“Okay, _one_ , Patrick and I have worked _very_ hard to curate our products and we are _not_ accepting community contributions just willy-nilly, and _two_ , even if we _were_ , we would _not_ prioritize vajazzled canine restraints and tacky advertisements!” 

“Wait, you’re not taking community contributions?” comes a voice from near his elbow. “I have manga you could sell.” 

David yelps and leaps backwards. It’s Eric, Bob’s weird little nephew. 

“Fuck! How fucking long have you been _in_ here, Eric?” 

“I don’t know, a while,” Eric shrugs. 

David inhales frantically through his nose, which is halfway towards a calming gesture, so at least he’s trying. One fucking crisis at a time. “Okay, you-” he starts, pointing at Alexis, but the door opens again with a pleasant tinkling that he never wants to hear again. “Oh my god, what now?” he snarls. 

Patrick, coming into the store behind a white-haired woman, smiles at the little crowd gathered around David. “Aw, David, are you doing a community event without me?” 

“ _No_ ,” he says firmly. “ _This_ ,” complete with expansive hand gesture, “is pure entropy.” 

“Alright,” Patrick says, clearly amused, and David cannot _believe_ he still likes this man. “Well, Gwen caught me on my way back from the cafe. She said she’s got an idea she wants to pitch to us.” He waggles his eyebrows, like he _knows_ he could have _and should have_ run interference but instead has brought this _here_ , so David has to respond in public. 

Alexis’s “oh, cute!” just manages to drown out David’s muttered, “Fucking hell.” 

“It’s a dating app, see,” the woman - Gwen, apparently - says excitedly. “I know we’ve got Bumpkin and all that, but this will really fill a hole in the market, if you will. I’m thinking we can call it _Gwendr_.” 

“Mmkay, what exactly do you think we do here?” David asks. 

“David, let her speak,” Johnny scolds. 

“Oh my _god_.” 

“People can sign up through the app like they would for a normal dating app, but here’s the twist,” Gwen goes on, and she gestures for everyone to lean in. Everyone does, except David. “I’m the only match they’ll get! I mean, we’ll add in some fake results, use some stock photos or whatever, but ultimately it’ll match them with me.” 

Behind Gwen, Patrick’s eyes have gone very wide. “Oh, wow,” he whistles. 

“Love that energy,” Alexis hums. “Champion yourself, girl.” 

“I could make that happen,” Eric - whom, _jesus fuck_ , David had forgotten is even here, is he _actually_ a vampire - says, staring intently at Gwen. “I’m in the coding club at school and it should be super easy to steal the fundamentals from another app and then personalize it the way you want it.” 

“Look at that!” David says loudly. “A match made in heaven. Why don’t - why don’t you two go over to the cafe and talk that out? You can take a booth, order some coffee, sit down and take your time - that’s it,” he urges, gently swooshing them towards the door. “There you go. That’s right. Okay. Thank god,” he breathes, snapping the door closed behind them. 

“Never a dull moment,” Patrick chuckles, clapping Johnny on the back and heading for the counter. 

“Oh, hey, Patrick, now that you’re here-” Alexis trills. 

“NO!” David cries. “No. _You_ and _you_ , kindly remove yourselves from my store, and don’t come back unless you’re actually here to buy something. You’re scaring away the actual customers. _Don’t you dare_ ,” he adds, when Alexis and their father both glance out the windows at the empty sidewalk and street. 

“Maybe it’s your _energy_ that’s scaring away the customers,” Alexis mutters, but she sniffs and loops her arm around her dad’s elbow and escorts him out. 

David stands stockstill in their wake, gaping at Patrick, wondering how everything has gotten so out of hand. How has _everyone_ so _horrifically_ misinterpreted what their store _does_? 

“You okay there?” Patrick asks, grinning. 

“No,” David whispers. “No, I am very much not okay, Patrick. We need - this cannot - how do we stop this? _Please help me stop this_.” 

“I don’t know, David, I’m kind of enjoying seeing how creative everyone is.” 

“That’s fine. They can go be creative - over there. Away - away from my - _our_ store.” 

“It’s gonna keep happening though,” Patrick says grimly, but with that earnestness that’s a little _too_ earnest, that tells David he’s being teased. “You know how people get-” 

“We’ll put up a sign,” David cuts him off loudly. “A big, garish sign on each door, making it _very_ clear we’re not accepting submissions.” 

Patrick inhales through his teeth. “Sounds a little off-brand.” 

“Fine! What’s _your_ grand idea, then?” 

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” Patrick smiles, and fuck, David’s definitely been baited into something. “Why don’t we channel everyone’s creative energies into a festival slash competition? Give people a chance to display and sell their crafts and their products, and at the end of the event you and I will choose one lucky participant as a new vendor for the store.” 

“Let me get this straight.” David’s halfway to a headache. “You want us to allow one of _those people_ to sell their products _here_ , and we’re going to decide by letting them do a - a middle school art flair slash Williamsburg flea market?!” 

“Sure,” Patrick says, in that way that means he has no idea what David’s talking about. “The official town flea market really only lets in people who are established businesses, so I bet there’s space for something that caters more to handicrafts that people make in their free time. And we haven’t done something since the open mic to really...integrate with the community. Besides,” and he steps up to David, settles his hands on David’s hips, “I know how much you like judging people.” 

“I do like judging people,” David mutters. “Can I reserve the right to not choose any of them?” 

Patrick squints. “Kind of think that would kill the mood a little. But we can offer a really limited-term run, say, one month to start, or something.”

“And we’ll make _very_ clear it’s a one-time thing?” David asks archly. “And that we will not be entertaining further solicitations?” 

“If that would make you feel better-” 

“It would,” he says quickly. 

“Okay.” Patrick smiles again, letting his hands slide around to meet in the middle of David’s lower back. “I’ll even do most of the prep so that all you’ll have to do is show up and choose the winner.” 

“That sounds like a significant imbalance in responsibility.” David says it partially because he’s trying to be a good boyfriend, but also partially because he doesn’t want to get hit with unexpected work down the line. 

“Oh, it is,” Patrick agrees. “But it’ll be a lot of paperwork, and I think it’s better if I just - if I’m the one to handle that.” 

“That’s fair.” David stares at the wall over Patrick’s shoulder as long as he can before he wriggles and groans. “Ugh. Fine. Fine! But only because you’re right that people will probably be _insufferable_ otherwise.” 

Patrick kisses the tip of his nose. “You are just filled with community spirit.” 

Patrick goes with the name Smorgascreek, just to annoy David. Joke’s on him, though, because David’s so past the point of annoyance that there’s no name he could’ve chosen that would _un_ annoy him. 

They close down the street next to the store, which feels like overkill, given how little traffic there ever is on that street anyway. It’s a gorgeous day and the street is lined with mismatched tables and tents. They’ve had a steady stream of festival attendees in the store most of the morning, but Patrick had insisted they close up for lunch so they could both walk through the vendors. 

David snags a muffin from Twyla and Ivan’s table near the beginning of the fair and nibbles it as he strolls. He has a feeling he’ll end up choosing them as the competition winner. It feels like a cop-out, but it’s a product he _mostly_ can stand behind without shame, and he could personally benefit from having a tray of fresh baked goods on their counter. Well, ultimately, it might become a problem, because he might end up eating all of them and then Patrick will try to explain tax write-offs again and the cafe is _right there_ , but. 

Patrick is stopping to speak to people at every time, so David makes his own way down the line. He bypasses the table where his dad and Alexis are _literally not selling anything_ \- his dad has coasters and stickers and flyers advertising the motel, and Alexis is telling everyone who’ll listen about the upcoming Singles Week event - and very much does not make eye contact with Gwen and Eric, who’ve split their table between Eric’s manga and a mock-up of Gwendr, featuring a big winking picture of Gwen. There’s a woman talking to Eric whom David recognizes from one of the art galleries in Elmdale, which - okay, he’s never actually seen the kid’s artwork, so. Good for him. Or whatever. 

Jake is chatting with Ted and David’s own mother about - well, something wood-related, David assumes; a few members of the Jazzagals have assembled an array of more hand-painted mugs than David would want to see in a lifetime; and Wayne from the thrift store is reselling some donated items, which cannot possibly be legal.

A few of their actual vendors are here as well, selling without participating in the competition. He greets the Hockleys and the Millers and gratefully accepts a sample from their honey vendor. 

He stops in front of an empty table. 

“What are you two selling?” he asks Ronnie and Stevie, who are leaning back in near-identical postures in the folding chairs behind the table. 

“Advice,” Stevie replies. 

He glances between their unruffled expressions. “Advice. You’re selling advice.” 

Ronnie leans forward to tap the sign taped to the front of the table. _One piece of advice = $5. Three pieces of advice for $16._

“But what if-”

“One piece of advice, five dollars,” Stevie says. 

“But if I-” 

“Three pieces, sixteen.” 

“So you didn’t make anything then,” David asks, grinning despite himself. “You’re just going to - to sit here and give people shitty made-up fake therapy.” 

“If Lucy from _Peanuts_ can do it,” Stevie shrugs. 

“We’re both wise women of the world,” Ronnie adds, her eyebrows daring David to contradict that statement. “I’m sure we can help a few misguided souls to find solace or direction.” 

“You’re a pair of dirty grifters, is what you are.” He’s torn between telling them to get out of the festival and admiring the hell out of them. “Didn’t you have to _pay_ for this table?” 

“And we’ve already made back what we paid, and then some,” Ronnie informs him. 

“A lot of it was from Bob,” Stevie admits. 

“Most of it was from Bob,” Ronnie agrees. 

“Deplorable,” David tells them, waving his finger in their general direction. “To think, you’re masquerading as upstanding citizens.” He starts to walk away, still scolding them. “You should be ashamed of yourselves!” 

Jocelyn and Ray each have a table, and David is once again glad he so quickly cut off _their_ attempts to sell at the Apothecary. Jocelyn’s selling her Sloppy Jocelyns, nary a warming tray in sight, and Ray’s table is divided into six different sections, one for each of his businesses, each of which in turn has its own sub-brand. They’ve pulled their chairs towards each other, though, and are leaning across the gap between their tables, heads close as they look at something. 

“Hi Jocelyn! Hi Ray!” David says loudly, not wanting to walk in on something he’ll be unable to unsee. 

“Oh, hi, David!” Jocelyn beams.

“Hello, and welcome to our little corner of Smorgascreek!” 

Hearing Ray say it, David wonders if he hadn’t played a role in convincing Patrick to go with that name. 

“What’ve you got there?” he asks, pointing to the object Ray is still holding. 

“Oh, that,” Jocelyn says, waving a hand even as Ray passes it to David. “It’s just the doggy hats Ray and I knit.” 

“The - what?” 

“Hats for dogs,” Ray says slowly, which only somewhat helps. “Jocelyn and I have been knitting them, at cost to ourselves, for - three years now? Three years. We sell them to raise money for the no-kill shelter in Elmdale, which seems to be chronically underfunded.” 

“But they’ve been super important for the area,” Jocelyn adds. “We had a rampant feral dog problem until a few years ago. No Mutts About It has really helped clean it up and has provided a lot of lonely animals with loving homes.” 

David turns the hat over in his hands. It’s incredibly neatly knit, so tight and even he wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that it was actually machine-made. And the yarn is rich and soft, likely the kind they stock at the Apothecary. “This is beautiful,” he says reverently. 

“Oh, it’s just a hobby,” Jocelyn chuckles. “We both have a lot of face-time in our jobs and it’s nice to do something a little quieter, sometimes.” 

“Do the dogs... _like_ wearing hats?” David asks delicately. 

“Oh, sure they do! Well, we’ve never had any complaints,” Ray clarifies, frowning a little. “We also make a slightly larger size for horses and cows, which as you imagine in this area is a bigger seller than you’d maybe anticipate elsewhere.” 

David hums. “What about pigs?” 

Ray and Jocelyn exchange a glance and a shrug. “Sure, we could do pigs.”

“Hey everyone,” Patrick says, sidling up and sliding an arm around David’s waist. “Everything going okay?” 

“Everything’s peachy! Would you like a Sloppy Jocelyn? Great food for the working man!” 

“Oh, I’m okay, thank you,” Patrick chuckles nervously. “I, uh, I just ate.” 

“So, I think I found our winner,” David says in what he thinks is an undertone to Patrick, wiggling the dog hat in his direction. 

“Who made this?” Patrick asks, taking the hat and fitting it over his fist. 

“We did!” Ray announces. “But David, if you’re talking about the winner of your competition, I should tell we can’t possibly shift over to selling these for profit.” 

“Ray’s right,” Jocelyn says ruefully. “While we’d obviously _love_ to crush the competition, these hats have always been and will always be a labor of love for charity.” 

“That’s okay,” David tells her, and then repeats it to Patrick. “That’s okay, right? We could sell these at the store but put all the proceeds towards the shelter. We never said our new vendor had to benefit _us_.” 

Patrick’s face is doing something funny. “You’d want that?” 

“Of course! These hats are beautifully made. I would _not_ be embarrassed to have them in my - our - store. And you’re the one who said we should _integrate with the community_ more. What better way than by helping support a local nonprofit?” 

“Sounds like cheating to me,” says Roland, suddenly appearing next to them and accepting a premade Sloppy Jocelyn. “Changing the rules on us mid-competition.” 

“Are you trying to undermine your wife’s philanthropic efforts, Roland?” David asks tightly. 

“Of course not,” Roland says around a mouthful of ground beef. “Just keeping you honest.” 

“Okay.” 

“It _would_ bring greater visibility, both to the shelter and the hats,” Ray says, a little nervously, a little excitedly, looking at Jocelyn for confirmation. 

“It would,” she concurs. “And I would _not_ mind a break from hawking them all over town. It is a _lot_ harder to sell dog hats as a grown woman than it is to sell cookies as a little girl, let me tell you.” 

“I - I wouldn’t know,” David mutters. 

“Oh, what the hay!” Jocelyn exclaims, and beside her, Ray titters in delight. “Let’s do it.” 

“Oh, this is going to be _so wonderful_ ,” Ray enthuses. 

“Mmkay, this is - a lot of positive energy,” David murmurs to Patrick. “Will you hate me if I leave you to deal with the details?” 

“Not at all,” Patrick assures him. “Not if you go open the store again.” 

David rolls his eyes. “ _Fine_.” 

“Hey,” Patrick says, catching David’s hand as he goes to leave. “I’m proud of you.” 

David shrugs, uncomfortable with the sentiment. “For what?” 

“For making a variety of compromises,” Patrick smiles. “Smorgascreek thanks you.” 

“My god, we can never speak of _Smorgascreek_ again.” 


End file.
